


Not a Proper Mutant

by flugantamuso



Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett, X Men
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flugantamuso/pseuds/flugantamuso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marie remembers how she got her power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Proper Mutant

Marie was fifteen when the curse came to her. She considered it a curse then, and sometimes she still does, though the Professor has taught her to think of it as mere power, to be harnessed and used for the cause of good.

She doesn’t regret it exactly, having this power, but remembering that boy, the way he shivered and curled up and wouldn’t move, still freaks her out when she thinks about it, and the thought of her parents makes a little dark ache bloom in her stomach. It never really goes away, though she forgets it for a while. She wishes that she could get rid of it, but it’s not the kind of thing that can be gotten rid of. She’s asked the Professor to make her forget, but he only looks at her sadly, and tells her that she’d regret it one day.

It’s not that she’s unhappy here; she’s connected to this place and these people, and they want her, want her more than her family ever did. But at the same time she’s aware that her roots have been torn away from her, and its difficult to grow new ones. She’s not the only one with this problem; even Bobby couldn’t go home again if his folks knew what he was.

She thinks that this is why she’s developed such a strong attachment to Logan, because his roots are even more torn than hers are.

They’ve both begun to grow again, helped by the Professor, whose very presence makes this place feel like home. She knows that he’s gone through what they have, maybe even something worse, though he won’t talk about it. And he’s made a new home, grown more roots, tangled himself in his students, and she can feel some of them snaking around her, and she doesn’t mind. They feel so friendly, feather-light, but there to catch her if she falls. The Professor, she knows, is trying to regain his old roots too. He goes every week, reaching out for someone who doesn’t want to be entangled.

She thinks, uneasily, that she wouldn’t want to be part of a web that included Magneto, even if the Professor was at the center. But cutting the Professor’s ties to her would also be to cut her ties to him, and maybe she could stand Magneto after all, because the thought of starting again is too painful.

Maybe someday she’ll be strong enough to reach back too, and maybe her family will reach back, maybe Magneto will reach back, certainly the Professor thinks that there’s something in him that is already doing so.

But she isn’t strong enough for it yet, and maybe she never will be.

It wasn’t until she was eighteen that she realized that she was different from the others.

Not that everyone here isn’t different from everyone else, but they’ve been studying mutation, about how it creeps up on you and then utterly surprises. She doesn’t see the point to revisiting old memories, but the Professor does, and maybe he has a point, because listening to everyone else’s stories makes hers sound a little less terrible.

Of course, it also makes her realize that she’s not one of them, or that if she is, she wasn’t always. The Professor notices, not her thoughts, since she’s pretty sure that he doesn’t listen in on people, but he notices that she’s disturbed, and asks her to stay after and have a cup of tea.

With any other adult this would lead to a painful and dreaded conversation. The upcoming conversation will certainly be painful, but not because of her listener. She has the utmost faith in the Professor, and there’s no one that she’d rather talk to about this, not even Logan, though it’s a close call.

“What’s wrong Marie?”

His tone is gentle as he hands her the teacup, such delicate china, and if she was a bit younger she'd be afraid of breaking it, but she’s lost her fear of making mistakes.

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure that it’s real, but I remember something strange about when I got my power.” She takes a sip of the tea, careful not to scald herself. It’s bitter, but she’s learned to like bitter things, or at least to tolerate them.

He leans back, like he was expecting this, and maybe he was, maybe he’s seen it in her alll along, and didn’t care. It’s a comforting thought.

“Tell me about it.”

And so she does.

She starts to tell him about the man with the sunglasses, but then stops unsure. The Professor just smiles his benign smile at her, so she starts again, earlier this time.

Her parents owned a restaurant—well, actually just a small café—on the edge of town. When she was younger she would follow her mother around the kitchen, occasionally getting snapped at when she got in the way. When she was older her father offered her a small sum of money if she would work as a waitress. She agreed, of course, she had always known what her place was. The fact that she was going to be paid was a surprise, but also one of the little treasures that she hid in her heart, the times that her father was kind to her.

He wasn’t an unkind man, but he was a hard one, and her interaction with him had always been awkward.

That night, there were a lot of customers, but not more than she could handle. She kept busy, whipping in and out of the kitchen.

When she finally had a free moment to breathe, she stood in the corner rubbing her aching wrists and observing. It was a strange crowd. Usually there were a few old-timers from town, a family celebrating a birthday, a traveller on their way to New Orleans or Boston. Tonight there was a young couple, probably out on their first date if their blushes and bashful expressions meant anything. There was a group of tourists, at least that’s what she assumed them to be from their gaudy clothing and strange accents. The tourists were noisy, their laughter filling up the small building, but they would hopefully leave a large tip.

And then there were the strange men in the back, who had asked for wine. The only alcoholic beverage that they sold was beer, and when she had told them this one had wrinkled his nose like he was smelling something bad, while the other one coughed politely. When she returned to their table their glasses were filled with a red liquid.

But that wasn’t the strangest part. One of the men was wearing _sunglasses,_ indoors, and at nighttime too. She might have thought that it was just because he was a foreigner, he had an English accent, but the other one had an even more pronounced accent, and he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. Perhaps he was a movie star? Or a criminal, someone who didn’t want to be recognized. Either possibility was exciting, and she kept an eye on them while dealing with the other customers.

One of the tourists swore loudly, and she winced, turning back to the kitchens.

Later, she stepped outside, glad to be away from the sweaty warmth of the dining room, the raucus noise of the customers. Technically, she was supposed to take her breaks in the kitchen, but it was even hotter in there, and her mother had been on edge all day. They would just end up frustrating each other. The fall night air was crisp, and it almost made her wish that she smoked, so that she’d have an excuse to go outside more often. Her mother wouldn’t care, but if her father caught her at it he’d belt her.

She’d been offered a cigarette at school the other day, and turned it down, feeling virtuous. But on a night like tonight virtue didn’t seem that valuable.

She was just thinking that she might sneak inside and rummage around her mother’s purse, when the door opened and a body fell on her, laughing. She stepped sideways, trying to duck away from the man. Let the drunkard fall to the ground, she had no sympathy for him. But apparently it wasn’t sympathy that he wanted from her, because he’d closed his fingers over her shoulder, and she could feel his hot breath against her neck.

She wasn’t frightened, she’d dealt with enough drunks to know that for most of them, all it would take was a good shove and a scornful look, but she was still relieved when the door opened again.

She’d been hoping for her father, but these two would have to do. She didn’t even have to say anything, because the blonde one was looking disapproving, and opening his mouth.

“I say!”

That got the attention of the slobbering thing on her back, which let her go and turned blearily to the two at the door, staggering without something to grasp. His eyes narrowed, and he said in a slurred voice, “Damn faggots,” and then turned back to Marie, or would have done so, had not the customer with the sunglasses been on him, sending him flying down the steps.

The blonde man was protesting, but with the tone of someone who knows that he should intercede, but doesn’t quite want to.

The drunkard fell in a heap at the foot of the stairs and didn’t rise. The sunglasses man knelt at his side and murmured something, before rising to his feet. Marie gasped.

His sunglasses had slid down his nose at some point during the scuffle, and his eyes, split like a cat’s or a snake’s were visible, shining a bright gold in the moonlight.

She turned to go inside, frightened even though she couldn’t have told anyone why, but before she had gone two steps, there was a hand on her arm, spinning her around.

She was facing the man in black, sunglasses back in place, and the blonde was at her side, giving an exasperated sigh.

Sunglasses put a gloved hand on her cheek, which made her shiver.

“You don’t like this, do you?”

She wanted to say that, no, of course she didn’t, but her voice seemed caught in her throat. She said nothing, lowering her eyes.

“No.” Sunglasses shifted his hand from her cheek to her chin, and nudged it upward. He was smiling now. “I’m going to give you a gift,” his voice was sibilant, but strangely gentle, “so that you’ll never be touched like that again.” He released her arm, still smiling, and she stood there swaying, uncertain whether to run inside, or ask him what he meant.

The blonde was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him, all of her concentration on Sunglasses. Then there was a finger on her forehead, and she realized that it was the blonde man who had put it there. He’d taken it away now, still muttering, and she focused enough to catch the tail end of a sentence.

“—no sense of scale.” Here he gave her a little push, saying, run along now, dear, you’ll be all right.

And she did run, inside to her mother, who gave her a quick glance, and then a longer one, and said “Goodness, what happened to you?” And then she was being roughly hugged and told to go home and get some sleep. She did, and when she woke up, she hardly remembered it.

Or, at least, she hadn’t until today.

She stopped talking, and realized that her throat was rough. The Professor handed her another cup of tea silently, and she took it, but her hands were shaking too much to hold it, so she put it on the table, folding her hands in her lap.

“What do you think this means, Marie?” He’s studying her, his expression kind, but she can feel the keen intellect behind those eyes measuring her, and she shivers, looking at her hands. She’s never been frightened of the Professor, not even when she saw his power fully exposed, but she’s feeling a little uneasy, not frightened, but a little disturbed, because what if she doesn’t belong here? After all, she’s not a proper mutant….

“Stop that.” She looks up startled, and he looks back, unperturbed.

“Marie, there’s no such thing as a proper mutant, you either are one or you’re not, and it hardly matters how you became one.”

“You,” she blinks, “how—“

“Don’t worry child, I wasn’t reading your mind, but you transmit your feelings rather strongly.”

She blushes, almost ashamed, only to be scolded again.

“And stop that too, being expressive is not something to be ashamed of, in fact, I’d prefer that my students all be a bit more expressive.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye now, and she’s bold enough to ask him, “Sir, who do you think they were?”

“I rather thought that it was a question of what, rather than whom.”

She shrinks back; he’s never called anyone a what before, no matter what they could do.

He coughs. “I should clarify, I mean that I don’t think that they were humans, mutant or otherwise. Mutants, as you should know from your classes, cannot make other mutants. We’re not vampires.”

A tiny quirk of his lip, but she’s too disturbed to see the humor. “But if they weren’t human—“

“’There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.’” A full out smile now.

“What?”

“I would have thought that you’d read Hamlet by now, Marie.”

“I have, last year’s literature class, but, you think that they were what, ghosts?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know, but whatever they were, they gave you at least one gift.”

“Some gift,” she said bitterly.

“Now, Marie, you’ve seen the more positive side of your ability, and besides, he was right, you’ll never be touched in such a violent way again.”

She wanted to point out that now she’d never be touched again period, and then that there were ways she could be violated without being touched, but that was a path that she didn’t want to go down, and besides, the Professor was speaking again.

“I think it’s also notable that your ability wasn’t the only thing that they gave you.”

“What else would he have given me?”

“I don’t know, but the second man touched you on the forehead, and you said that he disapproved of what the first one had done, so I’m guessing that he gave you something else, something to balance the first gift.”

“What would he have given me? Nothing else changed.”

“Perhaps something did, and you just didn’t notice it, or perhaps it hasn’t come into effect yet. No, don’t go looking for it.”

“I didn’t want this, either of them. It doesn’t matter whether it was a curse, or a blessing, or a gift, why couldn’t they have left well enough alone, or taken it back?”

“Would you want them to take it back now?”

She forced herself to calm down and think about it. She thinks about Bobby, his face softening with happiness, and Logan’s sharp grin, the Professor’s twinkling eyes, the way he visits someone every week, never giving up, and she suddenly knows that she wouldn’t give these people up for all the world.

“No,” she says firmly, “if I lost it now I’d still have to deal with the hurt that it’s caused, and I wouldn’t belong here anymore.”

“You’ll always have a place here, Marie.”

“It wouldn’t be the same.” And it wouldn’t.

When she leaves the office she feels as though all of her bones have been turned to mush, and she has difficulty convincing her legs to carry her up the stairs. She’s looking down at them and cursing under her breath when she hears a chuckle from above her.

She looks up to yell at whoever it is mocking her, but when she does all the air leaves her lungs, and she’s left speechless.

Sunglasses is leaning over the banister, a smile on his face. “You seem to have done well for yourself,” he says, “I’m glad about that, though I shouldn’t be.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing can come out, and suddenly he’s right in front of her. She blinks.

“Are you sure.”

“Sure about what?” At least her voice has returned.

“Sure that you want this,” he waves an arm expressively, “I could take it away, you know. If you want me to.”

And this is the true choice. When the Professor asked this question it was a hypothetical, but this is the real deal, and she finds herself afraid of it.

“Take off your sunglasses,” she whispers, “please.”

He does, slowly, and for the second time she’s looking into bright gold, unblinking, unfathomable, old, and for some reason she shivers.

“Please put them back on,” she asks, and he does.

He reaches out with a gloved hand, not quite touching her. “What’s your choice Marie?”

There’s a warmth creeping up her legs, and suddenly she’s feeling more sure of herself. She lifts her chin defiantly. “It’s Rogue,” she says, “and I’ve already made my choice.”

He throws back his head and laughs, “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he’s gone.

And she’s alone again, only she’s not, because Logan is coming down the hall above, a glower on his face. She smiles, and walks toward him.


End file.
